Page 2 of Summer Longing
So unprofessional!
She hesitated only a few seconds before knocking on the doorframe. The door behind the screen cracked open.
“Ms. Cooperman?” a woman asked. She looked to be in her late thirties and had green eyes and strawberry-blond hair that skimmed her shoulders. She was not Fern Douglas.
“Yes,” Ruth said, striking a note somewhere between cheery and extremely put out. “Is Fern Douglas here? The keys were supposed to be in the mailbox—”
“Yes, apologies. The move-in date has been delayed a night. You have a reservation at the Beach Rose Inn,” the woman said.
What?“I need to speak to Fern. Is she here?”
“No,” the woman said.
“Can you reach her for me? Or tell me where to find her?”
“No,” the woman repeated. “But I can give you directions to the inn.”
Chapter Two
Elise Douglas liked to think of herself as a team player. She knew that in marriage, this was an essential trait. And if anyone had asked her on that late-spring morning what the most important thing in her life was, she would have said, without hesitation, her marriage.
The problem was that if someone had asked what the second most important thing in her life was, she might have said her home. It had taken a lot of time and luck to find Shell Haven, a glorious eighteenth-century house. Three years into their life in Provincetown, the two of them had moved in and devoted themselves to lovingly restoring it. It had been intended as the place to start their family. Now, two summers later, they were moving out.
“It’s temporary,” Fern had reminded her.
“It’s for the entire season.”
“A minor inconvenience, considering how much our tenant is paying.”
Fern was right, of course. She had a way of being maddeningly practical no matter the situation. For Elise, renting out the house felt like a personal loss, like they were giving away a piece of their lives for the summer. For Fern, it was just business.
When Fern had her mind set on something, it was very difficult to argue with her. And that’s why, for the past few months, ever since the house-renting plan had been put in motion, Elise had simply pushed it to the back of her mind. She didn’t think about it at all, pretended it was not happening.
But now it was move-out day.
They were supposed to have left the previous day, ensuring that the house was in pristine condition for their summer tenant. But Elise had begged Fern for one more night under their own roof, and Fern acquiesced. They slept in the guest room and woke up early to change the sheets and pack any last-minute things they might have forgotten. It had been, Elise had to admit, a true indulgence on Fern’s part. It was, Elise had to admit,Fernbeing a team player.
Elise knew she had to let go. But earlier that morning, watching Fern retrieve their spare set of house keys and leave them in the mailbox for their tenant, something in her snapped. In the past year, she’d given up so much. Too much. She did not want to give up her house too.
And so, after Fern left for work, Elise opened the door and walked out onto the porch. She blinked for a moment in the sunlight, hesitated for just a few seconds, and then reached inside the black metal mailbox just outside the door. She felt around until her fingers touched the house keys, pulled them out, and dropped them into the pocket of her robe.
What she’d done next, well—she wasn’t proud of it. She realized, as she walked to the tea shop to join Fern, that she had perhaps crossed a line by displacing their tenant. But there was nothing she could do about it now, and she was already late for work.
She climbed the front steps of the two-story Colonial in the middle of Commercial Street that housed Tea by the Sea. Their shop had been open for business for exactly one week.
Elise had dreamed about owning a tea shop for over a decade. In her twenties she’d waited tables at Boston Seaport restaurants, one of which offered a small selection of specialty teas. It was the first time Elise understood that Lipton didn’t define tea any more than Folger’s defined coffee. She broke up the long hours on her feet with tea breaks between shifts. Tea forced her to slow down, be mindful. She learned about velvety white tea, the earthiness of green teas, the complex flavors of oolong.
The dream of owning her own shop was fanciful, and she’d never imagined it would become a reality. And then Fern made it happen.
The shop was all white walls with ceiling fans, tin ceiling tiles, rows of shelves with the shop’s own brand of artisanal tea, and, in the back of the store, a long white counter. On one side, two big chairs were arranged in front of the large picture windows with unobstructed views of the bay. And everywhere, the aroma of fruity tea leaves.
Looking at the beautiful space they’d created, she realized how badly she’d behaved with the house. She could practically feel the keys burning in her pocket.
She had been impulsive and now she had to fix it. She had to confess to Fern.
But Fern was busy. She was sitting across the room in front of the window with a notepad, interviewing yet another applicant for their part-time position. The young woman was very dressed up for an afternoon in P’town, even for a job interview. She wore a pastel print skirt and matching ballerina flats.
It was that time of year; a tide of young people swept into town for the summer, and enough of them were looking for jobs that small businesses and restaurants could staff up after the long, DIY winter. Fern had interviewed almost a dozen late-teen or twenty-something women in the past two weeks. She’d offered the position to a few but lost them to restaurants, where they would earn higher tips.
